


All The World Is Green

by Queertrees



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Doctor Who References, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Metafiction, Smoking, Time Lords, negotiating eternity, open-ish relationships, victor trevor is not an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1201642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queertrees/pseuds/Queertrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no fixed points, only changing ages.</p><p>Vic's a sculptor and Bills teaches music lessons and seeks out odd jobs. They stay in on Sundays and watch telly, especially "Sherlock." The show gets some things right, but it never had the full story. Same with "Doctor Who." Everyone fancies Billie Piper and Lucy Liu, though, whether you're human or ageless beings of light with a penchant for cheap wine and papadums.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The World Is Green

 

> _Maybe when our story's over_
> 
> _We'll go where it's always spring_
> 
> _The band is playing our song again_
> 
> _And all the world is green_
> 
> _Pretend that you owe me nothing_
> 
> _And all the world is green_
> 
> _We can bring back the old days again_
> 
> _And all the world is green._

* * *

“So, how can he be back?” Mary’s voice had the slightest edge of panic.

“Well if he is, he'd better wrap up warm,” John said to Mary, “There’s an East Wind coming.”

The music swelled and the credits rolled. The man on the left side of the sofa, his thick black hair plaited messily over his shoulder, hooted with laughter and clapped his hands. The man on the right, arms crossed and hands balled into fists, kept his eyes firmly on the television. Suddenly, the impeccable form of James Moriarty flashed back onto the screen, purring his tease of a question. The man on the left squealed in excitement at this and gripped the other man’s arm, prompting the other man to grab the remote and power off the television.

“Well! That’s that then,” the man on the left sighed, flopping back into the sofa pillows and smiling, “I thought it was rather good, though I suppose you’re going to be mopey about it, Bills.”

“I’m not _moping_. I’m just… If I thought the stories in _The Strand_ were romanticized, how do you think I feel about whatever just happened there?” he said, indicating the television like it was some sort of slightly frightening insect.

“Oh, you’re just being bashful, love. Don’t you fret, I thought you looked gorgeous, sweeping about in that big black coat. I still might get you one like it.”

He stood and walked over to a tall shape covered in a damp cloth, on a battered table behind the sofa. He unbuttoned his crisp blue shirt and threw it over a chair, leaving his white undershirt on. He carefully lifted the cover of the thing, revealing a roughly formed hunk of red clay, standing about two feet tall. He walked slowly around the table, looking at the clay from every angle, whilst unplaiting his hair and twisting it into a high knot, loose strands gathered together and off his neck. He secured it with an elastic, and picked up a plastic spray bottle with yellow flowers printed on it. He misted the clay with water till it was shining and slick. Little by little he picked at pieces, digging his nails in savagely at certain points and caressing it lightly with the pads of his fingers at others. In moments, dark red clay had covered his hands and was creeping up the deep brown skin of his wrists and forearms.

The other man- Bills- pulled a laptop from under the sofa and plunked it on his stomach, typing the password to his email with one hand and twisting locks of his hair around his fingers with the other.

“Which one was Bella?” Bills asked.

“Hm?”

“Bella. Apparently one of my students. Which one was she?”

“Oh God. She was the tiny one with the mother.”

“That doesn’t really narrow it down.”

“Tuesdays at four. Her mother’s name is Kathy and Kathy keeps insisting on making me tea and flirtatiously brushing my knee while you teach little Bella.”

“Oh, right. Her.”

“Why?”

“She’s dropping the lessons. Were you rude to her?”

The man at the sculpture looked over at Bills with an angelic expression.

“Of course I was.”

Bills grinned and beckoned the other man towards him, who stooped down and pecked a kiss on Bills’ lips.

“Thanks, Vic. The girl hated violin, anyway.”

Vic straightened up and went back to his clay.

“Mmm, I could hear she did. The whole street could hear it, I reckon. You have anyone tonight?”

“No, not till tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good. I’m starving and I don’t want any bored little kids eyeing my dinner or bored parents fondling my knees while I’m trying to eat. What d’you feel like tonight?”

Bills nodded, reading.

“‘Yes’ doesn’t really answer that question, Bills. Should I call for takeaway?”

Bills shook himself back into awareness.

“Vic, it’s been raining for hours, there’s a bloody flood warning on. You’re gonna make some kid go out in that?”

“Well, I never said I wouldn’t tip. No, you’re right. I don’t need you ogling any fit young delivery boys, anyway. I’ll make a risotto.”

Bills slid the laptop back under the sofa and huffed impatiently.

“I _hate_ risotto. 700 years together you could at least remember that I fucking hate risotto. Why’s everyone always trying to make me eat risotto? I’m not exaggerating. Every flatmate, lover, besotted parent, or distinguished employer in the last 40 years is always having me over so I can stare at them for hours while they stand at a stove and _stir_ and then I have to eat their squishy milky rice while they make puppy eyes at me.”

Vic shrugged.

“It’s rich, hearty, but it takes time and care and attention- _that’s_ what people are trying to give you. And there’s about a crate of wine in it so that’s usually a plus in my book.”

“Well then why is the internet filled with ways to cook it in your microwave in ten minutes?”

Vic smiled, “I suppose people don’t have time to fall in love slowly anymore. That’s modernity for you, isn’t it? I’m not doing any microwave pizza, though. You may not care what you put in your face but I do. Hang on, why were you looking up risotto recipes if you hate it so much?”

“For a _case_ ,” Bills said, as if the answer was glaringly obvious, “A man’s alibi depended on the timing of the prep to serving time, and another’s guilt was proved with the rosemary.”

“Ah. Well let’s hope there’s a murder based ‘round a steak dinner, and then you can do the cooking that night.” Vic plunged his hand in to the center of the mass of clay. It came out the other side and he craned his head around to wave at himself.

“Anyway I thought they got your brother a bit too right. Where is the posh twat anyway?” Vic asked.

“Mars. There’s some hugely dull negotiations going on because of the human settlements on their way. Remember, that’s how that posh twat is keeping us both fed. Detecting, music lessons, and sculpting don’t exactly roll in the cash these days.”

“Oh, I never forget. In fact that’s exactly why I think we should order an enormous amount of takeaway and give the delivery kid an absolutely massive tip.”

Bills rolled his eyes and picked up his phone from the sidetable.

“Fine, I’ll call for a curry from downstairs.”

“Don’t forget the papadums.” Vic stretched, arching his back with his arms reaching skyward. Ripples of pale blue light fluttered just under his skin, at his waist and triceps. The movement caught Bills’ eye and he looked up from dialing the number to gaze at the other man. Vic noticed and winked at him.

“How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?” Vic asked once Bills hung up, after a lengthy and complicated order.

“A week and a half. I was on a case. Don’t worry, I set my metabolism back to normal.”

Vic giggled.

“Do you remember when we decided to go to Uni, and the first week you were doing all those experiments on synthesizing quantum energy, except it blew up in your face and you got so flustered you couldn’t keep The Light under control and your whole face lit up blue? God, your brother gave me an earful that night. Like it was my fault, of course.”

“Well, it was, you were the one who couldn’t stop giggling at me.”

“What else was I supposed to do in front of our entire form? Act like that was completely normal? We were only just settled here and we weren’t actually supposed to be being _conspicuous_!”

“Mmm.”

“And then of course you go become an international sensation after that. Very discreet, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Don’t call me Sherlock.”

“Oh, right. ‘Cos you only called yourself that when you were with _him_.”

“If you haven’t noticed, it’s not exactly a common name. What’s that you’re always going on about, about us not being _conspicuous_? And that’s another thing- how the fuck did they find out my full name? Did you tell them?”

Vic’s eyes widened in affronted shock.

“Bills, I would never! Besides, who would I tell? Who would even _ask_ me? They all seem to think I’m dead. Or planting _tea_. Or you know, fictional.”

“Mmm, sometimes I’m not entirely convinced you’re not.”

“Did he actually marry someone, while you were together?”

“We weren’t _together_ ,” Bills grumbled.

“Oh, of course you were. And you know what I mean.”

“We were _not_. Well. There was…” Vic raised his eyebrows to himself, his back to Bills.

“Ugh- for God’s sake Vic, get that look off your face. Whatever happened between us, he never thought of us as a couple.” Bills bounced up from the sofa and over to a setup of agar plates and glass slides on plastic-covered folding table in the corner. He took a toothpick and went over to Vic, grabbing his hand away from the sculpture and scraping some clay from under his fingernail. He started prepping a slide with the clay sample.

“And yes, he did marry her. Not anything like the show would have you think, as far as I know. Neither of them had any family so they just went to some small chapel with a few of his army friends and Mrs. Hudson.”

“No big speeches from you with attempted murder thrown in to spice things up?”

“I was out of town on a case. France, I think. Or maybe that was Rome. Don’t remember.”

“What was she like?”

Bills sighed dramatically and adjusted the focus of his eyepiece.

“She was wonderful, of course she was. Lovely, kind, witty, patient. You know. Understanding. Not actually a rogue CIA assassin, unfortunately.” He sniffed, “Bit young for him.”

Vic’s jaw dropped and he cackled.

“Oh, you should talk!”

“Well I _looked_ even younger than he did-”

“Yes love, you still do.”

“But she died, and it devastated him. I couldn’t even go near him for ages after it happened."

“Well. that’s what you get for falling in love with a human, isn’t it?” Vic chided softly.

“Of course he was going to fall in love with a human. He _was_ human.”

“Oh Bills. I wasn’t talking about _her_.”

Bills glared at Vic, who didn’t seem to mind. They worked in silence till the bell rang.

“Get the door, Bills.”

“I’m busy.”

“I’m elbow deep in muck, you get it. You’re the one who was feeling all sad about making the poor kid go out in the rain.”

Bills grumbled a bit but got up and slipped on a pair of loafers. Vic cocked his hip towards Bills, who dug into the back pocket of Vic’s jeans and extracted a wallet. While their bodies were close, Vic planted a kiss on Bills’ mouth and smeared a bit of red clay on his nose. Bills ducked, unsuccessfully, and made a face like a disgusted nine year old.

“The boy, though, the one who plays you, I think he got you down rather well. For having to play the world’s most massive game of telephone,” Vic said, as Bills came back in with the two bags of food.

“You just think he’s prettier than me.”

“Oh love, don’t worry. There’s nobody on this planet prettier than you. Believe me, I’ve been looking.”

“Cheeky fucker.”

“Ooh, now, language! We can’t have that sort of thing in _The Strand_ , now, can we?” Vic picked up a handkerchief and wiped off his hands, standing back from his work and studying it critically, “The thing that gets to _me_ is, in all these years, a century of stage and film and telly and- they’ve _never_ done me!”

Bills laughed, a laugh that bubbled up from his belly and twisted the corners of his mouth and eyes.

“Seriously! What does it take! I’m a tall dark stranger from your mysterious past- could it _get_ any more cinematic? Not even in those ones you like, from the 80’s with the two different Watsons. _Apparently_ Sherlock Holmes has no need of Victor Trevor.”

Bills snatched Vic’s dangling wrist and pulled, toppling Vic back into the sofa.

“I _always_ have need for Victor Trevor, you needy little narcissist.”

“Pot an’ kettle, dear.”

“Maybe we missed a stage production somewhere that threw you in.”

“I _never_ miss any.”

“Maybe in Season 4,” Bills said, pulling the foil lid off a container and dumping rice into it.

“They’d better give me a coat as nice as yours.”

“Better. Twice as long and billowing. And a cravat.”

“I want _two_ cravats. And a dog.”

“No dog.”

“ _Three_ dogs.”

“Half a dog.”

“Yes, maybe. Well, they have to get you and John together _somehow_ , and jealousy's a good a way as any. That’s just following the rules of their own narrative.”

“We weren’t a coup-”

“Darling, they don’t even know that you’re _real_ , let alone an 885-year old asylum-seeking alien in a witness protection program. Do you think they really care about the semantics or factual basis of a century-old love-that-dare-not-speak-its-name situation?”

Vic pulled the elastic from his hair and it tumbled down in a wild tangle.

“You so did like being Sherlock Holmes.”

Bills shrugged.

“Sure. But living in an age with internet and modern plumbing's not so bad, either.”

Bills rubbed his thumb across Vic’s cheekbone, where a smear of red was slowly drying. Vic turned his cheek into Bills’ palm.

“Why do you only ever use red clay?” Bills asked.

“It was good enough for Isis to cry for Osiris in.”

“I don’t remember who they are.”

“I’ll tell you the story at bedtime, then. It’s dishy.” He paused, savouring the warmth of Bills’ hand.

“Do you ever wish it was him instead of me?”

Bills frowned at Vic, little streaks of blue light darting through his pale grey eyes, but said nothing. Vic sprang up from the sofa and went into the kitchenette, speaking lightly and without looking at Bills.

“You know. If it wasn’t me and your brother you were stuck with. Did you ever want that? If he could be like us instead. With you forever.”

“Well, he _is_ , isn’t he?” Bill sighed, jerking his head towards the shelf full of DVDs, leather-bound books and battered paperbacks that Vic insisted on collecting. Vic smirked.

“A century of this and you still can’t say it,” Vic said, coming back in with a bottle of reasonably-priced Riesling.

“Say _what_?” Bill snapped. Vic smiled and shook his head.

“You emotionally constipated dumbo. What happened to you?”

At that question, Bills burst into laughter, tinged with hysteria.

“What _happened_? Where should I start? The ridiculous childhood? The exile? The wars? Losing my best friend after a mere moment in my life? Or possibly just being stuck on this  _fucking stupid dull planet_!”

“Well, you certainly didn’t miss _that_ day at The Drama School for Petulant Time Lords, now did you? Oh, stop it- if you roll your eyes any harder you’ll burst a blood vessel.”

Vic’s success rate at making Bills laugh averaged 60%, over their shared 700 years. It would have been higher, but the early-mid 19th Century and the mid-late 20th hadn’t been the easiest times for either of them. Luckily, this was one of the easier times. Vic’s syncopated heartbeats increased their speed as he watched Bills try to hide the fact that his teeth were biting down the corners of his mouth.

“Time Lord!" Vic said, pretending he hadn't noticed, "That’s another thing they got a bit more right than we thought they would."

“Yes. Well, sort of.”

"Do you think he's seen his show?" Vic asked. 

"Yeah, he has. He won't admit it, but he fancies Billie Piper."

“Well, he's not alone there. Have you seen him lately?”

“No, not for ages. Gallivanting around Barcelona last time I heard.”

Something in Bills' words caused a fraction-length spasm in Vic's face, “Good for him, I hear Barcelona’s lovely this millennium.” He took a deep drink from his wine-filled mug, “I was in Barcelona, the country, when you died for the first time. You know, other than the Moriarty business. Not the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do- find a pilot willing to fly me back to Sussex in the middle of the riots.”

“For God’s sake Vic, are you ever going to let that go? I’m sorry I made you miss the revolution.”

“Thirty-four deaths in one century. More than half of them ‘cos of your drugs.” Vic’s laugh was high-pitched and truculent, “The 1960’s were the worst. Couldn’t get a single rational word out of you. Do you still get acid flashbacks when you crack your spine?”

“You’re welcome.”

“Welcome for what?”

“Only thirty-four? That’s an exemplary model of self-control.”

Vic bit his tongue.

“Do you know how much I hate it when you die?” he said, flaring up, “And every time you come back, you’re just that little bit different.”

“Well, it’s not like I can _really_ die is it? Not like _they_ can,” Bills said.

Vic crossed his legs so his body was angled slightly away from Bills, and scowled into space over the edge of his mug.

“Why are you trying to start a fight?” Bills asked.

“Thirty-four times you put me through that. It’s too fucking much.”

“I know. It is.”

“Am I good enough for you?”

“How many centuries do we have to have before you know the answer to that?”

“Do you ever think about how the only years people have of you are the only years when we weren’t us?”

“No, I don’t think about that. Why should I?”

“Bills.”

“Yes.”

“When you met him. When you left me-”

“I didn’t leave you, we were on a break. We needed space-”

“You were trying to kill yourself. You were alone. The one thing I told you to do- don’t be alone. You told me you wouldn’t be. You _can’t_ be alone- _we_ can’t- if I’d know how bad it had gotten-” Vic broke off and slammed his mug down on the table, reproach and worry in his face. A stab of blue light shimmered at his jaw and in the corners of his eyes.

“But then I wasn’t alone,” Bills said quietly, “Then I met him.”

Vic stared at him. Blinked. The tension between them simmered away and he exhaled an unsteady breath.

“Yes you did. Thank God.” He shook his head, “Half a century together.”

“Not quite that long."

“Nearly. He must have loved you, putting up with you all that time.”

“Well, he never tried to make me eat risotto.”

Vic smiled at that, one tear having made its way out. Blood from old wounds. Bills pushed the foil container off his lap and leaned over to Vic, kissing his mouth and wiping Vic’s cheek with his own. Vic sniffed and kissed him back. Wine and cumin and garam marsala.

“Talking to The Writer for you. Keeping your secrets. It’s an age for them, isn’t it? Over half their lives.”

“Where were you that whole time?” Bills asked.

“Oh, everywhere. Good old Arthur might have taken a shine to you, but you weren’t the only busy one. I spawned a thousand…”

“Oh, I know. You spawned a thousand stories of your own, were the stuff of a thousand legends. But which of our names is an international idiomatic cultural touchstone? No shit Sherlock, that’d be me.”

“Yes, I’m ever so jealous of you for getting name checked every time somebody says something obvious. Bravo. But ‘ _to the Victor go the spoils’_.”

“ _That’s_ not about you! Bollocks, you are so lying!”

“Of course it’s about me. I always did like spoiled little things.”

They giggled into each other’s mouths, the breathless laughter of repentant couples, relieved to have not cut as deep as they know they could have.

Hours later, Vic curled around Bills and murmured myths of gods and kings. His head was on Bills’ chest and the vibrations of his voice buzzed through Bills’ ribs and sternum. Bills could feel the very second he fell into sleep.

 

It was six in the morning when Vic heard movements from the living room. A cup on the table, the creaking of sofa springs. The space in the bed next to him was empty and cold, and the faint smell from an e-cigarette hung in the air. Vic sat up and shivered. Stood up and wrapped the blanket around himself like a cape. Shuffled into the next room.

Bills sat cross-legged on the sofa, his computer open in front of him. The only unusual part of this was the earbuds he wore. Regard for the sleep needs of others was still, after all these years, not paramount in his priorities. Because of the earbuds, he didn’t hear Vic come in right away. He was watching the show again, but not the episode they’d just seen. He was watching John speaking to the gravestone. A moment before the camera revealed Sherlock, Bills clicked it back to the second the scene began. The LED tip of the e-cig glowed, and the fluorescent shine of the computer screen glared in Bills’ face. Vic put a hand on his shoulder. Bills didn’t jump or start, but yanked the earbuds out, letting the scene play out before them silently. He scrubbed his hand through his black-and-silver curls. Vic knelt down beside Bills, waiting for him to speak or shut him out.

“His hair turned greyer day by day. Sometimes I would wake up and it would be three shades lighter than the last time I’d seen it. His sight got worse. He couldn’t shoot as straight as he used to. He started to forget things- take longer to understand when I explained things to him. And I wouldn’t always know if it was because he was really changing that fast, or if I’d just forgotten to move or look at him for days on end. I’d stare at him for hours, as if he wouldn’t change if I kept my eyes on him, like he’d only age in those times I'd slip up and sleep for a week or disappear into the fog-soaked underworld of London or just blink. I put grey in my hair and little lines around my eyes, gradually pacing them to his, so he wouldn’t feel alone. When people say they’re watching someone slip away, there’s nothing gentle or beautiful about it. It’s not like smoke wafting into oblivion- it’s like looking into someone’s eyes as they’re hanging off the edge of a cliff, with only your weak and sweating fingers wrapped around theirs to keep them with you. You scrabble for purchase that will never grow stronger. And then…” Bills snapped his eyes shut and kept them shut for three seconds, four, five. Opened them slowly and held out his open, empty hands in front of them.

“But when I finally couldn’t hold him with me anymore, it felt like I was falling instead of him. And then…”

“And then I’ll catch you. Every time,” Vic said, wrapping his arms around Bills, pinning his arms to his side. Bills rested his cheek against the top of Vic’s head.

“And then you catch me. And there’s not one new wrinkle or blur anywhere on you, and I can’t tell for the life of me whether I really haven’t seen you in a century or whether it’s only been a minute and I imagined it all. Sometimes I can’t tell whether something really happened or if it was something The Writer made up, or that I saw on the telly or in a film. And I… I lose him a little bit each time; I give him away to the rest of the world.”

Vic curled his fingers through Bills’, brown and cream-white laced tight together.

“I suppose I should be glad I haven’t made it to the telly, then,” he said.

“Sometimes I wonder why you still bother with me. Emotionally constipated dumbo.”

With his free hand, Vic took the plastic cigarette from Bills and took a drag.

“If I didn’t already know you could love infinitely, I would when I read about how many people you let slip away from the law in the name of a higher justice. I would know when you came back alive to him. I would know when I saw the Rod of Asclepius tattooed over your left heart when you came home, alive, to me after a hundred years apart. I would know when I saw you pick up your needle, I would know when I saw you cast them aside for good. I would know when you bring me fresh honey in the morning, I would know when you sit through shows about your life with me, even though they embarrass you and make you shout at the screen. Because your love for him still burns in your striatum and through your temporal cortex, and because that doesn’t temper your love for me one bit. Because your years apart from me are the years everyone will always remember, and sometimes that tears me open, but then you make me feel lucky, ‘cos it’s not the world that has me, it’s only you. ‘The most human human,’ he called you, right? Humanity’s not a competition. It’s a dance. And you do love dancing.”

  
Tomorrow Bills would give three violin lessons and see four potential clients, making each of them question the line  between magic and genius. Vic would get the shopping and bring home the paper, circling bits with potential cases for Bills. In the evening they’d go to a gallery opening of one of Vic’s friends, and their jackets would hide the electric blue light that pulsed under their skin and over their hearts, as the conversation changed to the series finale that had aired the night before. If anyone happened to see, no one could ever guess what Vic’s wink to Bills or the squeeze of their hands meant.

As it happened, Lucy Liu was in attendance at the gallery that night, and Vic explained Bills’ momentary lapse of verbal skills by telling her that they were both wondering if it was necessary to break up with each other in order to follow her to the ends of the earth. The tips of Bills’ ears blushed a deep blue; luckily he hadn’t gone for the haircut Vic had told him to get.

The beginning of the 21st Century wasn’t too bad for Vics and Bills.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (lyrics and title from "All The World Is Green," by Tom Waits.)
> 
> the statue of Isis that Vic mentioned-  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:GD-FR-LouvreEG126.JPG


End file.
